


Your Good Intentions

by Fríálfurinn (DangerousCommieSubversive)



Category: LazyTown
Genre: Assassination, Crimes & Criminals, Disguise, Enemies to Allies, Flirting, Intrigue, M/M, NICE ÍϷRÓ, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Undercover, he is not mean he's just not very subtle, intended as in-canon though, kind of a buddy cop jam going on but without cops or actual friendship, oh hey also, reluctant partnership, then maybe allies to lovers but they are so bad at this, vague early 1960s setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-18 22:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9404879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/Fr%C3%AD%C3%A1lfurinn
Summary: It's been two years since the tremendous mess that was Latibaer, when Glanni ended up having to escapefederal custody, and he's just trying to live his life. Really he is. A grift here, a spot of cat-burglary there--nothing very wide-scale, you understand, just enough to keep himself in relative comfort. And it's going fairly well until theelfshows up again, at which point thepolitical intriguestarts. Becausethat'sfun.





	1. Long-Lost Enemies

**Author's Note:**

> My _dudes_ I have been wanting to write this story for two or three weeks now, but I had commissions to finish and I wasn't allowed to write any more LT fic until I'd gotten those done, because people pay me for those. Anyway I'm so jazzed to finally get going on this.
> 
> If you've read my other LT fics, you should know that this is, for me, canon to _all_ of them--whether you're reading stuff set in canon or in the AU, Glanni and Íþró are still the same dudes with generally the same background. ^_^

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look, all Glanni ever wanted to do was enjoy his cake.

After the close of any really successful con, it was Glanni’s particular tradition to go get himself something sweet to eat. Not just _any_ sort of sweet, but something fine, something _expensive,_ something that he could cheerfully pay for secure in the knowledge that the money had until very recently been someone else’s.

Food always tasted better when it was bought with someone else’s money. And Gráðuguribae had plenty of someone-elses who had been _more_ than happy to buy into an import scheme that would avoid all tariffs and taxes—even if it _did_ cost a pretty penny up front, wouldn’t the thousands in future savings make it worthwhile?

He’d always been a good salesman. The less he had to sell, the better; he put the two-years-past embarrassment of Latibær down _entirely_ to the fact that he’d been weighed down by actual _product_. Product had to be stored and shifted. It could be damaged. It could be _stolen._ Sweet words and promises, on the other hand, cost nothing, and required no storage space.

So here he was, basking in the afternoon sun on the patio of one of the finest cafés in Gráðuguribae, reading a novel, eating a slice of _exquisite_ mousse cake, and drinking hot chocolate, while a solicitous waitress hovered nearby to see if he needed anything. All thanks to sweet words, promises, and other people’s money.

He was so full of satisfaction that he actually began to sing a popular song, cooing, “Oh, the shark has pretty teeth, dear,” to his cup as he considered what sort of pleasant villainy to attempt next.

A shadow fell over his table.

“Ásta, my dear,” he said, not looking up, “I appreciate how attentive you’ve been, but you’re blocking my light.”

“Think again, Glæpur.”

He tipped his head back, simply to confirm the source of the horribly familiar voice. “Oh, good.”

Íþróttaálfurinn glared down at him. “I should have _known_ you’d be here.”

“Why? Why should you have known that I’d be here? I _am_ here, but there’s no reason for _you_ to know it. Sit down, will you, I was enjoying the sunlight.”

“Give me _one_ good reason why I shouldn’t be hauling you to police right now.”

“Well, I should think that’s obvious, you shouldn’t because I haven’t _done_ anything.” _Except fleece a few avaricious morons out of their savings, but there’s no reason for **you** to know that._ “Don’t you believe in innocence until proven guilty?”

Íþróttaálfurinn moved around the table and sat down heavily across from him, looking mildly ridiculous and _entirely_ out-of-place in his leather breastplate and garish yellow-and-orange getup among the finely-dressed diners and delicate furnishings of the café. “You _have_ been proven guilty. Repeatedly. In a number of different courts. Including a number of counts of flight from justice, most recently while being transported from Latibær to a federal holding facility.”

“Don’t debate semantics with me, elf.” Irritated, Glanni put a bookmark into his book.

“Mr. Tandrisson?” The waitress had come over. Of course she had. “May I get something for your guest?”

Íþróttaálfurinn smiled at her. “Plain water would be fine, please. Unless you have any fruit teas?”

She was blushing. How irritating. Glanni rolled his eyes. “Bring an _ice_ water for him, my dear. With _plenty_ of ice. And when you’ve brought it, please pour it over his head. Get it down his back if you can.”

She giggled, because of _course_ she thought he was joking. “Right away, Mr. Tandrisson.”

He and Íþróttaálfurinn glared at each other silently for the few moments that she was away from the table. Glanni considered picking his book back up, but he couldn’t be assured that the elf wouldn’t try to _take_ it from him.

“Here you are, sir!” She was back, with a glass of water—no ice, Glanni was displeased to see—and a steaming cup of tea. “The tea is from the owner, with his thanks for your assistance two days ago. Apple and peach, with no sugar but I brought some honey if you’d like it?”

Íþróttaálfurinn was all smiles, as if he _wasn’t_ some back-flipping nightmare of a superhero. “That’s very kind of you! Thank you. And give the owner my thanks as well.”

“Of course, you’re very welcome! Just wave if you need anything.”

Once she’d left, Glanni took a long sip from his hot chocolate and said, “So you’ve weaseled your way into this town too.”

“I think it would be more appropriate for _me_ to say that of _you._ ” Íþróttaálfurinn drained the cup of tea in one long pull, apparently oblivious to how hot it still was. “I came as soon as I got wind of trouble, and of course you’re here, right in the thick of it.”

“Yes, you said something like that, what do you mean by it? Are you accusing me of something?”

“Stop dancing around it and tell me who you’re working with.”

“I’m not working with _anyone,_ you oaf. I _don’t_ work with people, nobody can keep up with me.”

“I remember differently.”

“ _They_ were hired muscle. Working _for_ me, not _with_ me.”

Íþróttaálfurinn squinted at him for a long and increasingly uncomfortable moment and then said, sounding genuinely baffled, “You _actually_ don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

Glanni raised an eyebrow. “Not even slightly. Although if it’s got you _this_ worried I think I’d _like_ to, it sounds like good fun.” He stood up. “In fact, if you’ll _excuse_ me, I need to go pay for this _excellent_ cake and then I think I’ll go take a look around, see what’s gotten you so excited.”

 

* * *

 

He managed to pay for his meal, tip the waitress, and get halfway down the block before Íþróttaálfurinn caught up to him and grabbed his wrist. “Don’t walk away from me, Glæpur, I know you’re up to something. You’re _always_ up to something.”

“ _Gently,_ elf.” Glanni tried to pull away, but to no avail—Íþróttaálfurinn’s grip was obnoxiously strong. “This is an expensive manicure, I don’t want to ruin it on your face.”

“As if you _paid_ for it.” Íþróttaálfurinn pulled him into an alley, out of view of passers-by, and shoved him against the wall. “Talk, Glæpur. What are you doing in Gráðuguribae?”

“I _was_ having some cake and reading until you interrupted me. And of course I paid for my manicure, those girls work on commission, what do you take me for?”

“A despicable criminal lowlife who poisons children.”

“True, true, but I have some standards. I pay for my manicures. And I tip generously. Just ask Ásta back there.”

Íþróttaálfurinn stared at him, baffled. “How is _that_ your line in the sand? You’ll poison children but you won’t steal _cake?_ ”

“My mother was a waitress. I don’t give a damn about children.”

“Glæpur, I looked your mother up after you escaped custody, she’s in a Florentine jail awaiting trial for attempting to rob the Uffizi.”

“And somehow this means she could never have been a waitress? Don't be so narrow-minded, Íþróttaálfurinn. Life is a rich tapestry.”

“Which you would _steal_ if given half the chance.”

Glanni grinned toothily. “Why, of course. It's what I do. In any case, girls in service remember good tippers, and will go to some lengths to keep that money flowing. It's a good resource. Now are you going to keep flirting with me, or can we get to the point?”

He’d hoped the implication would be enough to get Íþróttaálfurinn to let go of him, but apparently he didn’t get to have _any_ good luck today, because the elf just looked irritated and angry. “You _swear_ you don’t know why I’m here? You’ve done _nothing_ in this town that I should be looking into?”

“I’ll swear it on the grave of my father if it’ll make you stop _pawing_ at me. This is a nice shirt and your fingernails are _disgusting,_ do you _deliberately_ rub dirt under them?”

Still no luck. Glanni considered making a break for it, but Íþróttaálfurinn would almost certainly be able to catch up with him, and it would attract a great deal of attention, which he didn’t especially want. His marks would almost certainly be too embarrassed to tell anyone how badly they’d been taken—assuming they’d even realized it yet—but something about the elf tended to loosen tongues. No matter how flawless one’s makeup was, nobody looked good in the cold light of the law.

Íþróttaálfurinn stared up at him for a moment longer before, finally, saying, “You keep your ear to the ground, yes? You’re the sort of rat who wants to know when his ship is sinking.”

“Your analogy wounds me but I take your point. What’s it to you?”

“I need information.”

“Sorry to burst your adorably naïve bubble, elf, but snitches get stitches and wind up in ditches, and I don’t like you enough to risk it. Actually I don’t like you at all. If you need information you can go somewhere else, and _I_ will go get another slice of cake.”

“A group in Gráðuguribae is planning to assassinate the President.”

Glanni went very still. “Come again?”


	2. The World's Greatest Criminal Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Íþró's not planning on punching Glanni in the face anytime soon, and somehow that means they're working together now.

Íþró hadn’t expected someone like Glanni Glæpur to be staying in such a nice hotel. He wasn’t sure what he _had_ expected, it wasn’t as if he’d ever _been_ in a criminal’s hotel room before, but he’d been imagining something significantly grimier. Nobody was irreversibly bad, but it seemed only just that nice hotels would be reserved for people who’d at least _tried_ to redeem themselves. Not for scum.

No, though—“Mr. Tandrisson” was booked into one of the best hotels in Gráðuguribae, in a sumptuous third-story suite with an astounding view of the ocean. From the way the receptionists had been falling all over themselves to greet him and give him his mail, Íþró suspected that there was a con involved, but he had no idea how to go about learning what it was. Trickery and fraud had never been his strong suit. Give him a good chase and a spot of actual fighting any day, that was where his skills lay.

Glanni had been pacing back and forth in the suite’s little living room for fifteen minutes, looking genuinely agitated. “What sort of _idiots_ would want to assassinate the President? _Why?_ What do they think they’ll _get_ out of it? That’s what I want to know, what their game is. Are they being paid? Are they _anarchists?_ I _hate_ anarchists. This has to do with that _stupid_ tour coming up, doesn’t it? Who on _earth_ would want _that_ idiot dead?”

As soon as there was a break in the ranting, Íþró said, “So you _have_ actually met him?”

“ _No_ I haven’t met him. I’ve met his _bodyguards_ a couple of times, I stole his _car,_ but I’ve never _met_ the man.”

“Then what do you care? This seems like exactly the sort of thing you’d appreciate.”

“I just _like_ him, he’s got a very laissez-faire attitude towards business and he’s easy to bribe as long as you’ve got good connections to get him tickets to sporting events. _Also,_ public assassinations cause civil unrest, and civil unrest makes people paranoid and destabilizes the currency. It’s bad for business.”

Anger coiled in Íþró’s stomach, sudden and hot. “And the fact that his _life_ is in danger, _that_ doesn’t bother you? It’s all about how this man’s death would affect your _business?_ ”

“People die every day, Íþróttaálfurinn. When it’s someone I know, I’ll mourn. Until then I’ve got my own interests to protect. Why do _you_ care? I know what I get out of what I do, but what do you gain from your heroics? Not fame. Certainly not fortune. I can’t imagine that you’re just doing all this for the fun of it, you’ve got too much of a stick up your ass.”

“I’m doing it to protect the children.”

“Oh, yes, _right._ ” Glanni smiled unpleasantly at him. “And elves _like_ children, don’t they?”

Íþró started to his feet. “That’s a disgusting implication even for _you,_ Glæpur. Don’t be _vulgar._ ”

“Me? Vulgar? I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“That’s obvious to anyone who’s seen how you _dress._ ”

“Oooh, _that’s_ bitchier than usual. Did I touch a nerve?”

“Why are you trying to _provoke_ me all of a sudden?”

Glanni whirled on him, red-faced and furious. “Because you’re an _idiot_ with no sense of _subtlety_ and if you try to do this by yourself then you’ll just charge in like a bull and make a hash of things, and that means I’m going to have to _help_ you, which goes against _all_ of my principles. So if you’d please punch me in the face _now_ then I can go to the hospital and not wake up until you’re gone and you can find someone _else_ to babysit you.”

“Ah…” Íþró actually took a step back, bumping into the couch and sitting down again. “That was. Not what I was expecting you to say.”

Glanni stared at him, one hand at his temple, looking as if he was experiencing a level of emotional pain that Íþró couldn’t even conceive of. “Of course it wasn’t. It’s not the sort of thing I say.”

“You actually want to _help_ me with this?”

“I don’t. I don’t want to help you at _all._ I don’t like you, you don’t like me, and I’m sure that we’d rather not be in each other’s company. Are you going to punch me in the face?”

“I’m not planning on it.”

“Well, then, tell me what you know so far before I change my mind.”

 

* * *

 

Íþró hadn’t been investigating the assassination plot for more than a week, but it wasn’t until he laid out all the information he’d collected that he realized how _pitifully_ little he actually knew. Two or three vague rumors here, half a name there, a joke that had gotten an ugly laugh right before he’d interrupted the jokers to let them know that they were under arrest…there was a picture, but it was painfully fuzzy. He almost felt embarrassed to be displaying his woefully inadequate investigative skills.

Átta should have been the one doing this. He was the clever one, the trickster, he was _good_ at talking to people and getting them to tell him things. Except that he was also the wild one, filled with _old_ elven spirit—if Íþró was a bit unsubtle, Átta was like a brick to the face. He’d get the information, but as soon as he was on his way everyone would realize they’d been tricked, and it would make a mess of things.

Glanni snapped his fingers in Íþró’s face. “Elf, you’re wool-gathering.”

Íþró shook himself. “Sorry.”

“Why are you _trusting_ me? An hour ago you were ready to haul me to the police for the mere crime of _existing._ ”

“Glæpur, I was going to haul you to the police for the various crimes of fraud, burglary, child endangerment, and _attempted murder._ ”

“See, there, like that. And now you’re sitting here telling me everything you know as if we’ve been partners for years.”

Íþró considered it for a moment and then shrugged. “Seems simple to me, it’s because you’re a coward.”

Glanni drew himself up, offended. “ _Excuse_ me.”

“You’re a coward and a bully _and_ you’re afraid of me—”

“I am _not._ ”

“—and so I doubt you would have _invited_ me to punch you in the face unless you were actually serious about it.”

“I could have just been trusting in your _idiot hero nature—_ ”

“Especially not here, where nobody else can see. If you’d said it in the café where everyone could hear you, I would have known it was a show and you’d already be in jail. Besides, you looked really worried. _Also,_ I walk faster than you run, I think if you tried to double-cross me I could catch you pretty easily.”

Glanni stared at him. “That was…surprisingly clever.”

Íþró grinned at him. “You say ‘hero’ and ‘stupid’ like they mean the same thing. They really don’t.”

“I need a drink, where the hell did I put that rum.” Glanni looked around the room, found his bottle of liquor behind a chair, produced a glass bottle of Coca-Cola and half a lime from the room’s tiny refrigerator, and proceeded to mix himself a drink while Íþró looked on in fascinated disgust. “I’d offer to make you one, but I hate you and you’d say no anyway.”

“Have you eaten or drunk _anything_ today that didn’t have sugar in it?” Íþró’s fingers twitched. The lime looked good, he _liked_ limes, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the sight of Glanni draining his horrifying concoction in one sip. He couldn’t even drink carbonated _water,_ how on earth could Glanni just down half a soda like that? With alcohol in it, no less?

“I had three Bloody Marys with breakfast, those don’t have sugar in them.” Glanni gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment and then mixed himself another drink. “Anyway, you’re lucky that I’ve decided to help you with this, because from everything you’ve just told me you’re going in _completely_ the wrong direction, whereas _I_ am one of the finest criminal minds in the world and thus _far_ more qualified to solve the problem.”

Íþró raised an eyebrow. “You forgot the password to your own factory and hid incriminating evidence in a public trash can.”

“ _That_ was an _off day._ What—don’t _laugh_ at me, you _gremlin._ ” Glanni took a _small_ sip of this new drink. “Anyway, there are a couple of people in town that I’ll need to talk to before we leave.”

“Ah…leave for where, exactly?”

“The capital, of course. Not until tomorrow, the people I need to see here are midnight types, I won’t be able to find them until at _least_ after dinner. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to let me go talk to them _alone?_ ”

“Hardly, Glæpur, I’m not letting you out of my sight for a _second_ until we’ve seen this through.”

“Oh, wonderful.” And _there_ went the rest of the drink. “I suppose that means I’ll have to eat _dinner_ with you. I hope you realize that I don’t kiss on the first date, if you try to get frisky I’ll stab you.”

Íþró rolled his eyes. “With a hat pin, I’m sure.”

“No, with a switchblade. Good hat pins are hard to find. Now shut up, elf, if I have to spend the next few days in your company then I’m going to need a nap _now._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurs to me that I'm going to be throwing around a lot of random names (some of which I made up and which may be dubiously grammatical), so if you have any questions about them you can totally ask me in the comments or [on my Tumblr.](http://dangerouscommiesubversive.tumblr.com)
> 
> I also have extensive family trees drawn up.
> 
> Too much worldbuilding? What? Nooooooo.


	3. A Friendly Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for a road trip!

“I'm not going in that thing.”

“There's nothing wrong with the balloon, it's perfectly safe, get up here.”

“Perfectly safe, he says. There's nothing safe about a hot air balloon. The Montgolfiers can suck my—”

“Glæpur. Get in the balloon.”

It had been bad enough when the elf had woken him up. He hadn’t even had the decency to wait until the time was in double digits—no, apparently _he’d_ been awake since sunrise, and that meant that _Glanni_ had to get up at _eight-thirty,_ which was a loathsome time of day. All this despite the fact that they hadn’t even gotten back to the _hotel_ until nearly three in the morning, and then had spent fifteen minutes arguing over what constituted “letting Glanni out of his sight” before they could even _consider_ sleeping.

Íþróttaálfurinn had slept sitting up in a chair in the corner of the bedroom. It had been _eerie._

And _now_ he wanted Glanni to get into a _balloon._

“Or _what?_ ”

Íþróttaálfurinn scowled at him. “Or I’ll come back down and _get_ you into the balloon.”

Glanni rolled his eyes. “Ooh, the elf is _flirting_ again. Should I keep arguing so you _have_ to come get me? Were you hoping I’d let your hands wander a little?” A pause. “Although I suppose I could be persuaded, it’s not as if you’re bad to look at and I _am_ irresistible. I’d need to find some way to make you shut up, though, and—”

_“Glæpur.”_

“You have no sense of humor.” He looked up. “Oh my god, you’re _blushing._ ”

Íþró looked—either embarrassed or furious, Glanni couldn’t quite tell. “I don’t need you to be _conscious_ to fly you to Hláturbaer.”

“You do if you think we’re going there.” Glanni sighed to cover a momentary flicker of genuine fear and climbed into the basket. “I have a stop I need to make first.”

“Where?”

“Óreiðubæ.”

“Oh, yes, of course, before we go to the real capital of the country we’re going to the _crime_ capital of the country, that seems _entirely_ sensible. Are you completely insane? You think I’m going to take you _there?_ ”

“Where else would we go to learn about criminal activities?” The basket seemed _very_ small; luckily Glanni always traveled light. “The library? Excuse me,” to a passing postman who had stopped to stare at them, “I have outgoing mail, would you take it instead of gawking at me?”

“Oh! Ah, yes, sir, of course.” The postman fumbled Glanni’s letters into his bag. “Good day, sir. Íþróttaálfurinn. Have a safe trip.”

Glanni shrank back from the edge of the basket as the balloon lifted off, sitting as best he could and folding himself up as small as possible. It wasn’t _heights_ that were the issue, per se—it was flight itself. He loathed flying. He’d been on one aircraft ever, and it had been noisy and bumpy and the cabin had stunk of cigarette smoke, but it had at least provided the comfort of a solid floor and a _bit_ of legroom. _Here_ he was sitting in a wicker basket hung from a bag of wind, pressed up uncomfortably against the aggressively muscular shins of his worst enemy. It would have been hard to imagine a less pleasant form of travel that didn’t directly involve leg irons and taking him to prison.

Íþróttaálfurinn didn’t seem to have noticed his discomfort at all. “Who were you writing to?”

“My mother.” Glanni scowled at the floor of the basket. He could see light seeping in through the weave. “We’re doing something monumentally stupid, I thought she might like to know in case I get myself shot before she’s managed to break out. How do you steer this thing? I don’t trust this wind.”

“I use the propellers, it’s not actually hard. Who was the other letter for?”

“Curiosity killed the cat, elf.”

“Of course, Glæpur, but satisfaction brought it back. Writing to a friend? You’re not married, are you?”

“Who I write to is none of your business, and you ought to think long and hard and reconsider that second question. Why are you making small talk? We’re not friends.”

Íþróttaálfurinn sighed, hands busy on the haphazard-looking system of ropes and pulleys that steered the balloon. “Clearly we’re not friends, but it seemed like the polite thing to do given how much time we’re going to be spending together.”

“Ah, yes.” Glanni laughed cynically. “Politeness. Always the hallmark of your behavior towards me.”

Another sigh. “Sulk if you want to, but it’s going to be a long flight to Óreiðubæ without something to pass the time.”

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, airsick and wishing he’d managed to hang onto his book and hating himself for giving in, Glanni finally said, “So what _did_ you want to talk about?”

“Anything, really.” Íþróttaálfurinn was leaning over the edge of the basket, in one of the most horrifyingly unsafe postures Glanni had ever seen in his life. “If you don’t want to have a polite conversation we can at least talk about what we’re doing. What are we looking for in Óreiðubæ?”

“We’re looking for the actual conspirators.” Glanni rolled his eyes at the elf’s incredulous look. “What, you thought they were _actually_ in Gráðuguribae? That place is a tourist trap, the only criminals who really do well there are drug dealers and pickpockets. Well, and there’s the red house at the corner of—”

Íþróttaálfurinn turned bright red. “Y-yes, I know about that place.”

“ _Do_ you? Do they give you a discount because you’re a hero?”

“I’ve _never_ —stop trying to distract me.”

“I’m not trying to distract you, I’m trying to embarrass you, it’s slightly different. Anyway, apart from the drug trade, crime in Gráðuguribae is strictly small-time. Town government’s very concerned with making the rich tourists feel safe, there are too many cops. So if you ever hear that something major’s going to be happening there that doesn’t have to do with cocaine or LSD, the person you’ve heard it from is either lying to you or wrong. Given that it’s _you,_ lying is more likely. _Obviously_ a conspiracy to assassinate the President is much bigger than Gráðuguribae’s minimal resources could handle. We’re going to Óreiðubæ because the conspiracy is _certainly_ based there, and because I need to talk to a woman named Halldóra Hrekkjusvín.”

“Hrekkjusvín—is she a relative of Halla’s?”

“An aunt, I think. There are a few different information brokers in Óreiðubæ, but the people I spoke with last night indicated that Halldóra is the one I need. I have my suspicions about what she’s going to tell me, and if I’m right then I’ll have to get a few things before we go to Hláturbaer.” Glanni sighed. “And if you’re going to insist on coming with me, _please_ don’t arrest her.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“That was very straightforward.” Íþróttaálfurinn smiled into the wind. “And almost polite.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“You might not be surprised to know that I don’t have very high expectations for your behavior.”

“Excellent, _keep_ your expectations low and we’ll get along much better.” Glanni tried to shift into a different position, ended up with a faceful of Íþróttaálfurinn’s thigh, and huddled back against the wicker wall of the basket again. “I don’t especially like people in the first place, and you grate on my nerves.”

Íþróttaálfurinn actually laughed, cheerfully, as if they were friends having an easy conversation. “You should be thankful that you ran into me and not my friend Átta, then, he’s _much_ more energetic than me. And much better with magic.”

The thought of someone with _more_ energy than the elf made Glanni shudder, but it wasn’t what really caught his attention. “ _Átta?_ You _number_ your friends? Cold.” He thought about it. “I like it.”

“It’s a generational notation, you idiot,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, although without any particular heat. “He has a family name. He’s the eighth Sportacus.”

“…he’s named _Sportacus._ ”

“Yes.”

“So his father was _Sportacus númer Sjö?_ I wouldn't do that to _any_ child.”

“His mother was Sjö, it's a gender-neutral name. Just goes to the firstborn. Actually, Átta’s married, to a human even, and they just had a baby, so now there’s a Níu as well.” After a contemplative pause, “I suppose they’re a peculiar family.”

“ _You’re_ one to talk, your parents named you _sports elf._ ”

“My parents are old-fashioned, descriptive names were much more common in the old days. Anyway, Átta came to Latibær before I did, but he doesn’t have a very long attention span, so I took over for him. If you’d run into him he probably _would_ have punched you in the face. Or maybe turned you into a weasel, I suppose he’s more whimsical than violent.”

Glanni stared up at him. “I hate _everything_ about this man. I haven’t even met him and I despise him with every fiber of my being.”

“I’m not sure you have any fiber in your being at _all,_ I saw what you ate for dinner last night.”

“Shut up, elf.”

Íþróttaálfurinn shrugged and leaned far over the edge of the basket again, face turned to the wind. “Suit yourself.”

“I _always_ suit myself, that’s why I’m telling you to shut up.”

 

* * *

 

Óreiðubæ stank.

They noticed it as soon as the city came into proper view. First was the smoke, clouding the sky for several miles around and causing Íþróttaálfurinn to lower the balloon in alarm, and then there was the stench. Garbage, dirt, the clinging back-of-the-throat pong of burning tires…it was, perhaps, the worse circumstances in which to be flying in an open conveyance. After his initial fit of coughing subsided, Glanni dug a vast scarf out of his bag, wrapped it around most of his head, and said, “Put us down _outside_ the city, it’ll be _much_ worse if we try to land within city limits and people will _notice._ Speaking of which, I _hope_ you have another set of clothes.”

Íþróttaálfurinn looked briefly irritated. “You think I don’t have any common sense at all?”

“You _don’t._ ”

“And you _do?_ You’re the one who wears four-inch heels everywhere, that doesn’t seem sensible to me.”

Glanni bristled. “They are _stylish._ ”

“They make you awfully easy to catch up to.” With some fussing the balloon began to lower, towards a trash-strewn field on the outskirts of the city. “I feel like I should remind you that I don’t _like_ you, Glæpur. You pick and you jab and you pretend to be best, but if I didn’t need your skills for this, you would be in jail already. I know what you are. Hold this rope.”

“And what am I?” Every fiber of the rope in Glanni’s hand quivered with wind. “If you don’t mind my _asking._ ”

Íþróttaálfurinn swung on another rope, and the balloon continued to lower until it landed with a thump on the browning grass. “You’re a villain. It’s not really very complicated.”

 

* * *

 

Halldóra Hrekkjusvín did her business in a booth at the back of a small, noisy family restaurant, and when she saw Glanni she slapped him. “ _That_ is for getting my niece put into jail.”

“Halldóra Hrekkjusvín, I presume.” He rubbed his cheek, frowning. “It was _two years ago._ Also, how do you know who I am?”

“Don’t be stupid, Glæpur, your face was in all the papers, am I supposed to _forget_ the face of the man who got my _fourteen-year-old_ _niece_ put into _jail?_ ”

He shrugged. “I suppose not. May I sit down?”

“Only if you have something _interesting_ to ask me.” Her nails clicked on the table as she sat back down herself. “What are you doing in Óreiðubæ, coward?”

“Uggi Uppljóstrari tells me you’d know who might be getting _political_ around here.”

Her eyes went wide, and then narrow. “That _is_ an interesting question. And I _can_ answer it for you. For a price, of course.” She looked past his shoulder and actually smiled. “And you’ll have to introduce me to your _boyfriend,_ he is a _treat._ ”

“My _what?_ ” Glanni twisted around.

Íþróttaálfurinn was crouched near the door of the restaurant, surrounded by giggling children. He seemed to be telling them a story—that was the only reason Glanni could think of for his energetic gesturing—and with the ill-fitting black sweater he’d borrowed from Glanni and a beret pulled down over the tips of his ears he looked more like a Beat poet or a French artist than a superhero. Except for the smiling; Glanni had never met any Beat poets _or_ French artists who smiled so constantly.

It was rather attractive, actually.

Glanni shook himself. “He is _not_ my—look, what’s your price?”

“Mm, if he’s not _your_ boyfriend then you should _definitely_ introduce me.”

“ _No._ Now what’s your _price?_ ”

“Seven thousand.”

“I’ll write you a check.”

“Very funny.”

Glanni scowled, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a ruby the size of his thumb—the only thing he’d been able to take from his Gráðuguribae stash the previous night before Íþróttaálfurinn had noticed that he’d crept away. “ _Here._ Is it the Glaumbæjar Gang?”

Halldóra snatched the ruby from him, peered at it for a moment, and then dropped it into the front of her shirt. “It’d probably be easier for you if it _was,_ Glæpur.”


	4. The Honeymooners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glanni has fun with hair dye and Íþró doesn't know anything about Shakespeare.

“I’m _not_ sleeping in that thing.”

Íþró had rolled his eyes more in the past twenty-four hours than in the past four _years._ “ _What_ is your objection to the balloon?”

Glanni had been even _more_ irritable since they’d left the meeting with his informant. Apparently he’d gotten what he needed, but suddenly he was snappish and bitchy in a way that he’d _never_ been before, brushing past Íþró and out the door of the restaurant like a dowager duchess who had just seen someone drink from their finger bowl. He’d refused to speak to Íþró at _all_ except to say that he needed to go to the drug store, and then once they’d _left_ the store had let loose with a stream of complaints covering the smell of the city, the lack of good eateries, the damage Íþró was doing to his sweater, how stupid Íþró’s _beret_ looked—

“You were the one who gave it to me, doesn’t that make you the one with bad taste?”

“Shut _up,_ elf.”

—how stupid his _usual_ hat looked, and how much he would prefer to be on a tropical beach than _anywhere_ near Íþró.

“What’s my _objection_ to the balloon? Like there’s _one._ Apart from the fact that it’s the world’s _least_ safe form of aircraft, that basket is sized for approximately _half_ of a person.”

“I’ve slept in it plenty of times.”

“The only thing preventing you from fitting into a _thimble_ is your _ridiculous_ thighs. _I_ need _legroom._ ”

“You wouldn’t have to stare at my thighs so much if you’d just stand up in the balloon and enjoy the scenery.”

“It’s nice to know that you _do_ actually want me dead.” Glanni crossed his arms over his chest, shopping bag bumping against his hip. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have just suggested that I put myself at risk of falling out of a hot air balloon. I’m not sleeping in it. And _anyway_ , do you not believe in showers or are you trying to force me to have a breakdown? I need access to a bathroom, and unless you want to murder me with your _body odor_ then so do you. There are perfectly decent hotels near here.”

“I do _not_ have—” Íþró sighed. “If it’ll make you shut up, we’ll go to a hotel.”

“You’re much ruder when there isn’t anyone around to hear you.” Glanni retrieved his little traveling bag from the basket and then brushed himself off ostentatiously. “I’m almost impressed.”

“I don’t really feel any particular compulsion to be polite to you, Glæpur.” Íþró got his own regular clothes as well; even with his crystal tucked into his pocket, it felt strange to be out of uniform. “After all, you’ve made it clear that you never intend to be polite to me.”

“Not if I can help it.” Glanni shouldered his bag and headed off, presumably in the direction of a hotel.

Íþró followed him at a comfortable stroll, which was more than enough to keep pace with Glanni’s long strides. The sullen silence didn’t make for _great_ company, but it was better than walking the streets of the stinking city alone. Elves didn’t often go to large cities, or at least not by themselves. Very crowded places didn’t like magic, there were too many minds pressing in and interfering—so the tricksters couldn’t sustain their illusions, and the few heroes couldn’t stand the constant weight of so many varieties of human distress. Átta should have been there with him, but at least he wasn’t by himself.

Glanni wouldn’t even _look_ at him, but when the lighted façade of a surprisingly pleasant-looking hotel finally came into view he said, “That’s the one, I’ve stayed there be—”

A dog barked somewhere nearby.

Íþró looked down at his sudden armload in surprise. “Glæpur, what in the world are you doing?”

Glanni’s eyes had gone wide. “There’s a _dog_ around here.”

Íþró tried to put Glanni down but couldn’t; the other man’s arms were wound around his neck. “Yes? It’s just a dog. Probably someone’s pet. Nothing to be frightened of.” At least he wasn’t heavy, barely even enough to slow Íþró down.

“You _say_ that, but it’s probably rabid. I don’t know about you, but _I_ don’t feel like dying of rabies today.”

“I can’t just carry you around like a baby, Glæpur.”

“So you _want_ me to get bitten by a rabid dog and die in agony.”

“Of course I don’t—look, I’ll carry you until we’re inside, but then you have to walk again, this is ridiculous. You’re a grown man.” A bellhop held the door open for him. “Thank you so much. See, we’re inside, there’s nothing to worry about. Excuse me, ma’am?” to the receptionist at the desk.

The receptionist looked at them over the tops of her cat-eye glasses, raised an eyebrow, and said, “I take it you’d like the honeymoon suite.”

Before Íþró could even _process_ that, Glanni beamed at her and said, “Yes, we would. And we’d love to pay in advance so we can…sleep in. Do you take Carte Blanche?” He passed her a little golden card and then hissed in Íþró’s ear, “Now you _can’t_ put me down or it’ll look _suspicious._ ”

“Why are you _like_ this?” Íþró muttered to him, flashing a strained grin at the receptionist.

_“I don’t like dogs.”_

As soon as the receptionist had looked at Glanni’s little gold card she’d gone from vague disinterest to effusive courtesy and smiles, fluttering with delight as Glanni filled out the guest book and registration card. She passed over the key fob with a flutter of her eyelashes. “Second floor, room twenty-five. Enjoy your stay!”

 

* * *

 

When they reached the room, Íþró fumbled the door open one-handed and dropped Glanni as soon as they were inside. “What was _that?_ ”

Glanni removed his shoes and brushed himself off. “Oh _good,_ there’s a stocked bar. And I _told_ you. I don’t like dogs.”

“I’d gathered that. The _honeymoon_ suite?” The room had a curtained bed. Everything was aggressively pink. There were hearts _everywhere._

“I wanted a room with a large bathtub, I need to dye my hair.” Glanni looked Íþró up and down contemplatively. “Yours too.”

Íþró stepped back, hand going to the top of his head. “You need to—no. _No._ Why? You are _not_ touching my _hair._ ”

“Well, not right _now,_ right _now_ I’m going to get dinner.” Glanni flung himself onto the enormous bed, grabbed the room service menu, and picked up the telephone. “ _Hello,_ we’d like to order room service. Yes, the French onion soup, shrimp cocktail, the filet mignon, a fruit salad,” he threw a disgusted glance at Íþró, “and a chocolate cake. No, not a _slice_ of cake, a _whole_ cake. All of it. To the honeymoon suite. Why, _thank_ you.”

Scowling, Íþró pulled the little beret off his head, and then peeled off the sweater Glanni had forced on him and threw it in the man’s face. “You’re going to need to start _telling_ me about things before you do them, Glæpur, or I’ll start to suspect that you’re planning on double-crossing me. I’m willing to assume that you know more about _crime_ than I do, but that doesn’t mean that you’ve got free reign to do whatever you like without explaining it to me.”

“The group planning the assassination calls themselves the Bremen Town Players. Yes, after the fairy tale. They think it’s very clever.” From beneath the sweater, Glanni’s voice sounded muffled and irritable. “They’re trying to make a name for themselves as saboteurs. They’ll have a double agent on the President’s staff, we need to infiltrate as well and identify him.” He pulled the sweater off his face very slowly, as if every movement pained him. “Thus, disguises, thus, hair dye, thus…” and he trailed off.

Íþró stared at him. “…what?”

“Put a shirt on, elf, for _god’s_ sake.”

There it was. A horrible, dawning suspicion. Íþró wanted to say, _are you **attracted** to me?_ but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it—in part because he couldn’t be certain that Glanni wouldn’t fire back with the same question, and he didn’t know how he’d answer. He grabbed his usual shirt from the bundle he’d brought, pulled it on, and settled on, “It’s going to be very hard for you to dye my hair if you can’t stand to look at me without a shirt on.”

Glanni had covered his face with both hands, although he was very clearly peering out from between his fingers. He didn’t say anything.

Blushing, Íþró pulled his hat out of his pocket and put it on, tugging it down to cover his ears. “None of this situation is ideal.”

“You’re telling me, Romeo.” Glanni rolled off the bed with a theatrical leg-kick and went straight to the bar.

Íþró blinked. “…I’m sorry, what?”

“ _What_ what?”

“Romeo. I don’t know that word, I’m assuming it’s an insult.”

Glanni stared at him as if he’d grown a second head, hand going still in the middle of stirring his martini. “You don’t—have you not read _Shakespeare?_ ”

Íþró shrugged. “Where I’m from, the teachers don’t really prioritize human literature except where it concerns us directly. Wasn’t Shakespeare the one who wrote the play about the teenagers chasing each other around in the woods? With the donkey?”

Glanni kept staring, and then downed his martini in one long sip. “I’m going to need more of these to deal with you. No, it wasn’t an insult.”

There was a soft knock at the door.

“Oh, thank god, the food is here.”

“What _does_ it mean, though?”

Glanni ignored him.

 

* * *

 

Having someone dye his hair was perhaps the least enjoyable thing Íþró had ever experienced. The dye smelled bad, and it had a peculiar texture against his skin. Glanni (who had coated his own hair in something with a hideous ammonia stench) had also some sort of goop around his hairline, which was supposedly to keep the dye from staining but which felt greasy and unpleasant. Even worse, though—

“Will you stop _squirming?_ ”

Íþró’s face felt hot. “You keep touching my ears.” He twitched one, just for emphasis. “It’s…don’t do that.”

He _heard_ Glanni smirk. “Don’t tell me you’re _ticklish._ ”

“No, it’s—”

“It’s not as if I’m grabbing them.” A knuckle brushed up the back of his ear.

Íþró grabbed Glanni’s wrist—harder than he’d intended to, really, but he didn’t want to risk losing his grip. “Elf ears have the approximate sensitivity of human nipples. Having my hat off at _all_ around you is already more intimacy than I’m really comfortable with.”

There was a _long_ pause before Glanni said, _“Oh.”_

“Don’t touch my ears.” Íþró let go of him.

“Fine by me, I wouldn’t want to go giving you any ideas.” A few more brushes of unpleasantly wet hair dye. “It needs to sit for half an hour or so and then you can take a shower and wash it out.”

Íþró groaned. “I’m going to look ridiculous.”

Rinsing the dye out of his hair after the half-hour was up made the hotel shower look like a murder scene—and Íþró had only ever been to one actual murder scene, but that had been plenty. He stood under the stream until the water ran as clear as it was apparently going to, washed his hair with the stuff Glanni had handed him, and admitted, when he was finally finished, that he didn’t look _entirely_ absurd as a redhead, although he _did_ look unnervingly like his cousin Agnar.

“Glæpur,” he said as he stepped out of the bathroom with one towel around his hips and the other around his head, “I look as if you’ve lit me on fire.”

“I should _be_ so—dear god, you don’t like having your _hat_ off around me but you’ll walk around in nothing but a _towel?_ ”

“Yes? Everything private is covered. Also, you’re not wearing a shirt either.”

“You look like a Tom of Finland drawing.”

“I’m not familiar with that artist.”

“Perfect, I’m not going to explain him to you.” Glanni stalked past him into the bathroom. “I’m going to wash this stuff out of my hair, put some _clothes_ on.”

Shrugging, Íþró went to the desk, grabbed a piece of the hotel’s stationery, and started making a list of things to look up or at least consider once he had a quiet moment and could go by a library. Glanni having skills that he didn’t have was one thing, but Íþró was beginning to get the sneaking suspicion that he was being mocked. _Something_ that Glanni was implying was going over his head, and he wanted to know what it _was._

> _\- Romeo—Shakespeare (wrote play about English cousins & teenagers in forest)_  
>  _\- Tom of Finland_  
>  _\- human nudity taboos—consistency_

At the bottom of the page he added one final note.

> _Could be playing with me, could be flirting. Observe further._

He folded the paper small and started to get dressed.

 

* * *

 

They lay on the bed in the dark with Íþró’s belt separating them. It didn’t feel like enough, but Íþró didn’t have a sword, and Glanni wasn’t a noblewoman, so they made do, since the other options would have been for one of them to sleep in a chair (unhealthy, especially since Íþró had already done it once) or to have no separator at all (awkward).

“I feel as though we should be painting our fingernails or talking about _boys._ ” Glanni spoke softly, voice thick with cheery sarcasm. “Isn’t that what teenagers do in terrible movies?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Íþró shifted, uncomfortable even with the belt between them. “I don’t watch movies.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t. You don’t _do_ fun things.”

“It’s more that we have differing definitions of _fun._ I go outside. I play games. _That’s_ fun. You swindle and cheat and poison children. I presume it’s fun for you, although I can’t imagine how.”

“You can’t imagine much at all, I’m sure.”

“Are you _deliberately_ rude, or do you just not know better?”

“I can be polite to people I like.”

Íþró rolled his eyes, even though he knew that Glanni couldn’t see him doing it. “I should have known you’d say that.” Then, though, something that had been bothering him welled up again, and before he could stop himself he said, “You’re not actually human, are you? You can’t be, not acting the way you do.”

There was an offended sniff. “And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“I don’t believe you’ve eaten a vegetable in your life. Humans can’t survive on nothing but sweets, liquor, and red meat. You drank eight martinis this evening and you didn’t even waver a little. I’ve met your mother, she seems human enough, what was your father? Assuming you know him.”

“Of _course_ I knew him, where the hell do you think I got ‘Tandrisson’ from? My mother and father loved each other very much.” A rustling of cloth as Glanni shifted. “Of course she poisoned him when I was twelve, but he would have done the same to her. Candied aconite on top of his birthday cake. Very romantic. No, elf, I’m simply the result of superior breeding— _excuse_ me, you’re doing _what_ now?”

Unbearably curious, and just tired and frustrated enough to have lost patience with Glanni’s yattering, Íþró had reached across the separating belt and run a hand down Glanni’s exposed back. “Checking for signs of non-human parentage. Vestigial wings, a tail… _something._ ”

Glanni swatted his hand away. “If I’m not all human, it’s nothing _I_ know about, and if this is leading to some sort of 'do you have a little elf in you' pick-up line then I'm leaving. I’ll go out the window if I have to.”

Íþró sighed. “It always comes back to sex with you, doesn’t it.”

“ _Hardly._ Sex is all well and good, but it _usually_ comes back to _money_ or _sugar._ You’re the one who keeps _groping_ me.”

“I’m not—” Sleeping in the chair was beginning to look more appealing. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to be inappropriate."

“Apology accepted, providing that _next_ time you feel like groping me you _ask_ first.”

“That’s highly unlikely, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Highly unlikely. _Hmph._ As if I’m not the pinnacle of human perfection.” Glanni sounded like he was grinning now. “Get some sleep, elf, we’re off to the capital in the morning.”

The prospect of another cross-country trip in close proximity to Glanni was becoming increasingly distressing.


	5. Capital Mischief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything gets _slightly gayer_ as Glanni and Íþró have a mid-air heart-to-heart, get dressed up, and go to a _very_ fancy party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH BOY FRIENDS BUT WAIT before you read this chapter, go take a look at Celepom's [AMAZING ILLUSTRATION](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/156466658022) of the hotel check-in scene from the last chapter. It is so good. _So good._ I am so joy.

In the past, Glanni had always preferred to work from a somber base. Dark hair was unremarkable; dark clothes were similar. Add something vivid on top and _that_ was what people paid attention to, their eyes drawn to shine and color as if they were so many magpies. That was what they remembered. Strip off the big hat and flashy coat and they wouldn’t realize that they’d ever seen you before.

As much as he hated to admit it, though, he _did_ look rather fetching as a blonde. It was almost a disguise of its own; with strategic use of cosmetics and the top of his head glowing like he was some young Apollo, _nobody_ would look at him and see Glanni Glæpur. Which was just the way he liked it.

“Wear the sweater again,” he said as he slicked his hair down. “You’ve already stretched it beyond all recognition, you might as well keep it until we can find you something that _fits._ ”

From the other room he heard an irritated grunt, and then Íþróttaálfurinn saying, “I see no reason why I should disguise myself before we’ve even reached Hláturbaer. I’ve got nothing to hide in my own balloon.”

“You are the most _argumentative_ —do I have to say _please_ or something?”

“It wouldn’t hurt. In any case, I recall a discussion last night regarding you _telling_ me things?”

“ _Please_ put the sweater on.” _Eyebrows,_ that was what he needed. Prominent, dark eyebrows, to emphasize the bleached hair. Let people think he was silly and vain. They’d underestimate him. “You know _why_ the president is going on this tour, yes?”

“No. Should I?”

Glanni had been _about_ to start in with the brow pencil, but instead he just let his head fall forward, hitting the mirror with a faint and not especially painful thump. “He’s up for re-election next year, you dolt. For a third term. He’s going on the tour to build goodwill. He’s very popular, and his opponents are both fatuous asses, so I doubt he’s in any danger, but it’s the politically sensible thing to do. In any case, campaign tours like this are tremendously complicated affairs with an enormous number of moving parts. _I_ will be joining his touring party as his head of wardrobe. You’ll be my assistant. I’d get you into his personal guard, but I suspect that without direct supervision you’ll blow our cover.”

“Surely he has a head of wardrobe selected already.” Fabric rustled in the other room. “If these tours are so complicated, everyone must have been chosen months in advance.”

“Of _course_ he has one already, but he won’t for much longer.”

“…Glæpur, I think it should go without saying that I don’t countenance murder, and while I don’t actually like violence, if you try to kill anyone I’ll beat you within an inch of your life.”

Glanni sighed. “I don’t kill people, elf. I’m just going to make whoever it is _very_ uncomfortable.”

 

* * *

 

On the way out of the hotel he stopped by the front desk and caught the eye of the receptionist—a different one from the previous night, a slip of a thing who tittered when she saw him. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Well, my dear,” and he winked as he handed her the key fob and the letter he’d written last night, which caused her to giggle again, “I _did_ want to return this. But also, would you be an _absolute_ angel and send this out with the rest of the mail?”

“Of _course,_ sir.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as they were in the hateful balloon and had lifted off, Íþróttaálfurinn said, “ _That_ one wasn’t a letter to your mother, I think.”

Glanni sighed. “No, elf, it wasn’t.” He’d tried standing, briefly, but the vertigo had been too much to handle, and now he was tucked into the corner of the basket again, hating every inch of creaking wicker that pressed against him.

“I didn’t see you writing it last night.”

“I wrote it while you were in the shower, it was the only time I had any privacy.”

“So who are you selling me out to?” The elf’s tone was deceptively calm; he looked out over the landscape with the serene expression of someone just passing the time of day. “Is it the conspirators? The Glaumbæjar Gang, maybe? I can’t promise that I won’t be angry with you, but if you tell me now it’ll be better for you.”

Glanni stared up at him. “You _really_ think I hate you enough to endanger my own business interests by letting the country fall into chaos?”

“I think you’re very spiteful, and not as clever as you believe yourself to be.” Íþróttaálfurinn turned towards him, leaning back against the opposite wall of the basket, the picture of relaxation. “So?”

“I’m not selling you out.”

“Lying really isn’t going to help your case here, Glæpur.”

He didn’t want to have this conversation. He _didn’t._ Every instinct he had screamed against the admission. But… “It was a letter for Halla.” Íþróttaálfurinn’s mouth actually fell open. His shock was simultaneously gratifying and offensive. “There. You know who I’m writing to. Happy?”

“You’re writing to _Halla?_ ”

“That’s what I said.”

“Halla _Hrekkjusvín?_ The girl you got thrown in _jail?_ ” The naked disbelief in Íþróttaálfurinn’s voice was even more offensive than the startled expression. “You’re _writing_ to her.”

“Yes, well. I owed her an apology.” Glanni shifted, suddenly not wanting to meet the elf’s eyes. “I sent it anonymously, but she figured out who it was from anyway. She’s very clever. No _idea_ how she got my mailing address the first time.”

“…how long have you been corresponding with her?”

“Maybe a year now. I assume you see her when you’re in Latibær, has she mentioned that she’s got her eye on that rich boy? Nenni? Not sure how she reconciles that with whatever she’s got going on with Solla, but they’ve probably discussed it.”

“With _Solla?_ Solla is going out with Maggi, what are you talking about?”

“Aha.” _That_ was satisfying. “So you _don’t_ know everything about them.”

Íþróttaálfurinn frowned. “Apparently not. I ought…I ought to have a talk with them once this is all done, make sure they’re…”

“Not behaving like nasty, dirty creatures?”

“Being safe.”

“I should think you’d object to that sort of thing, being a paragon of morality or whatever you are.”

“What, Solla and Halla? Why? If they’re safe and enjoying themselves and no one is hurt, then there’s no harm in it. They’re still very young, you know.”

Glanni raised an eyebrow. “And you’re such an old man. You’re certainly younger than me.”

“Probably, but elves mature twice as fast as humans do, and we live twice as long. Humans burn themselves out so quickly.” Íþróttaálfurinn gazed down at him with such a _lack_ of judgment that it made Glanni shift nervously. “I owe you an apology. I misjudged you. You’re a better man than I thought you were.”

Glanni looked away, not wanting to bear the weight of that oddly kind gaze any longer. “I’m really not, elf. But your apology is accepted.”

They spent the rest of the flight in silence.

 

* * *

 

“Hláturbaer’s in sight.”

“Good. If I have to spend another hour packed in next to you like this I’ll scream.”

“Come on, it hasn’t been so bad.”

“Says you. I need a very expensive pastry and several strong drinks, because then I’m going to have to take you _clothing shopping._ ”

“If you say so, Glanni.”

“You’re smiling. Why are you smiling at me? Stop that, it’s eerie.”

 

* * *

 

It was, without a doubt, the absolute worst shopping trip Glanni had ever been on. For one, there was the problem of money—he _had_ plenty of it, but actually _giving_ it to people went against every instinct he possessed. _Other_ people spent money, and he sometimes spent money that _belonged_ to other people, but he hadn’t spent so much of his _own_ for at least ten years. Add to that the fact that he was stuck trying to dress an elf who had little attention span, even less fashion sense, and _no_ sense of self-consciousness, and he couldn’t even relax and pamper himself. It was like chivvying around a piece of high-energy Greek statuary—exhausting, difficult to explain, and often undressed at inappropriate moments.

 “You get awfully worked up about my bare chest for someone willing to wear a skintight black _catsuit_ in public.” On the word “catsuit” Íþróttaálfurinn turned faintly pink, as if he was embarrassed to even reference the thing.

“The catsuit has _thought_ behind it.” Glanni scowled. “I don’t just strip at the drop of a hat.”

“Neither do I,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, peeling off the shirt he’d been trying on and putting the badly stretched black sweater back on. “That’s why I’m so puzzled by your reactions, I’ve only taken my shirt off when it was appropriate to do so.”

No. No. They weren’t going to discuss it. “Well, _stop._ ”

“You don’t have to come into the fitting room with me.”

Glanni opened his mouth to reply, paused, and then closed his mouth again on the grounds that he might incriminate himself.

Íþróttaálfurinn raised an eyebrow and looked smug. How _dare_ he go about looking smug at Glanni like that. “See, you can’t argue with that. You’re just complaining to complain. Which I suppose at this point shouldn’t be surprising.”

 _If you take your shirt off in front of me again I’m not going to be held responsible for anything I might say or do._ “Yes, well. That’s quite enough shopping, I think we’ve found everything we need. And…look.” This. This was where he was anticipating an actual argument. “There’s an affair happening at the presidential mansion tonight which we’ll need to get into. I have to see a few…old friends of mine to get us in, and they won’t take kindly to me bringing a stranger. Can I…” His very soul rebelled at what he had to say. “Can I _please_ go meet with them alone.”

He got a sidelong glance for that as Íþróttaálfurinn adjusted his belt, and then the elf said, “Sure. I’ll trust you. But for an hour only.”

“ _Excuse_ me, I need to—oh. Ah. Yes. Excellent, good, thank you.”

 

* * *

 

The meeting with Gaddi only took forty-five minutes and went surprisingly well, which was to say that Glanni obtained the invitations he needed and got out of the rendezvous point with only a few minor bruises which would be easy to hide under clothing and makeup. Pursuit was exhilarating, and by the time he’d climbed in through the window of their new hotel room and collapsed on the floor he was laughing. “Ohhhh, I haven’t had that much fun in _ages._ ” A pause. “What are _you_ staring at that’s got you all red in the face?”

Íþróttaálfurinn jumped, coughed, and looked away. “Nothing. Ah. I just. You looked very happy. Did you get the…whatever it was you needed?”

“Here.” Glanni pulled the invitations out of his pocket and passed them over, and then broke into a fresh spasm of laughter. “Oh, that was _good._ ”

“Who’s Safir Svindlare? And…Felix Flón? What kind of a name is _Flón?_ ”

“The first one is me. Safir Svindlare, the very famous Swedish fashion designer. Nobody will have heard of him, he’s been in Milan all season, that’s how you know he’s so famous. And Felix Flón is my faithful but rather dim apprentice—that’s you. You’ll barely have to talk at all, just be polite and act like I hung the moon.”

Íþróttaálfurinn gave him a level stare, eyebrows rising very slowly. “Like you hung the moon?”

“Yes. They’ll assume that I keep you around because I’m sleeping with you. I’ll tell everyone I found you in some backwater and that you’re some kind of fabric-cutting savant, people will say _anything_ in front of you if they think you’re stupid. It’ll also let you get away with wearing a hat everywhere, hicks aren’t expected to know anything about polite behavior. Best cover story I can manage with the time constraints I’ve got.”

“I see.” Íþróttaálfurinn—didn’t look angry. Actually, he almost looked amused. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“Of course it makes sense, I’m a genius. Anyway, you’ll have to stop wearing the beret or they’ll think you’re a Communist. Or a poet. I’m not sure which would be worse, someone cornering you to ask about your politics or someone trying to make you recite poetry.”

“All the poems I know are in Elvish.”

“See, there, that would be terrible. That’s why we got you that other hat, we’ll go for sort of an off-kilter Mod look, it’ll be daring. I may also attempt an Andy Warhol impression, do make sure nobody punches me.”

“I don’t know what _any_ of that means.”

“Of course you don’t. Oh, and. Yes.” Glanni dug in his pocket, pulled out the vial he’d _also_ bought from Gaddi, and tossed it at Íþróttaálfurinn. “The president’s current head of wardrobe is called Tindra Tíska, I’m going to slip _that_ into her drink at the party while we’re having an animated discussion about current fashion trends.”

Íþróttaálfurinn uncapped the vial, sniffed at it, and then, before Glanni could stop him, delicately dipped a pinky in and _tasted_ it. “This isn’t any human-fatal poison that I know of. What is it?”

Glanni shifted nervously. If the elf was going to get mad at him at any point, it was going to be now. “It’s a…ah…a street concoction. Strictly non-lethal. _Don’t_ glare at me, it’s not habit-forming. All it’ll do is make her _very_ sick for a couple of days. A week at the outside. With hallucinations. After that she’ll be fine, but we’ll already be on our merry way with the rest of the president’s entourage.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Of course you don’t. The question is, do you have any _other_ suggestions?”

Íþróttaálfurinn considered it for a moment and then put the cap back on the vial and tossed it back to him, scowling. “Not really. And it doesn’t taste lethal. If I find that this woman’s been done lasting damage, though, I’ll—”

“Yes, yes, you said before.” Glanni was already going through their shopping bags. “Trust me, if there’s anything I know about it’s how to avoid getting beaten up. Here, you need to dress for the party, there’s that _hat,_ those _drainpipes,_ and…yes, the gold silk thing, that’s just awful enough to be perf—” He froze in the act of removing the tags from the fashionably awful silk shirt. “You’ve taken your shirt off again, why do you keep _doing_ that.”

Íþróttaálfurinn blinked at him. “I’m not sure how else you _expect_ me to get changed.”

 

* * *

 

The food at the president’s party was better than any that Glanni had eaten in ages. The décor in the presidential mansion was tastefully dull in a way that made his fingers itch; if he hadn’t been under _constant observation by a superhero,_ he would have happily crept away and spent the rest of the evening filling a pillowcase with small, easily fenced _objets d’art_. He could have financed a year or two of _very_ comfortable living just from the silverware. As it _was,_ though—

Tindra Tíska was gazing up at him with a delighted smile. “Oh, yes, _Svindlare!_ You know, I think I saw a showing of your spring collection in Paris a few years ago, I’ve always been _very_ impressed with your work.”

“Thank you.” His Swedish accent needed work, but clearly she hadn’t noticed. “Yes, that was a good line. Lots of good colors that season, yes. I’ve seen some of your recent work dressing the president, you have an excellent eye. Champagne?” He slipped the vial into his sleeve as he turned back around.

“I don’t mind if I _do._ Now, I saw your apprentice, what _he’s_ wearing.” Her eyes sparkled. “It reminded me that you know, I’ve been _wanting_ the chance to talk to someone else in the industry about some of these fashions coming out of England nowadays.”

About half an hour later, Tindra was fanning herself much more than seemed appropriate given the temperature of the room, and Glanni was saying, “Oh, Coco Chanel can _bite_ me, we’re not in wartime now, minimalism is _over_ —” when she doubled over and threw up.

He skipped out of the way as the rest of the guests gasped, and she straightened up only to let out a _piercing_ shriek of, “Monsters!”

He caught her as she stumbled and snapped his fingers. “Felix! Come help me get this poor woman to a chair.” To the horrified party-goers nearby, he said, “Looks like a nervous breakdown to me. Happens all the time in the world of _haute couture,_ you know, yes. Yes, terrible shame.”

Íþróttaálfurinn hissed, “I _really_ don’t like this,” as they were getting Tindra to a chair. “It’s unkind.”

“Oh, get off your high horse, she’ll be fine.”

Tindra stared dizzily up at Íþróttaálfurinn and said, loudly, “That man’s not _human!_ Can’t you all _tell?_ ”

Íþróttaálfurinn froze. Glanni smirked at him for a bare second before assuming a more serious expression again. “Yes, definitely a nervous breakdown. Terrible shame, you know. Terrible.”

And there across the room was the president himself, a sweet, moon-faced dolt of a man who Glanni had already found he rather liked, saying quietly to one of his aides, “What’s happening, is that Tindra? Is she all right? Oh my god, I hadn’t realized she’d been under so much stress lately, I can’t make her go all over the country like _this._ ”

There it was.

Tindra had drawn a number of concerned party-goers, including at least one actual doctor, so Glanni was able to detach himself from the group and sail through the rest of the whispering crowd like a shark cutting through still water. “Mr. President,” he said, with as much wistful kindness as he could manage, “she’s sitting down already, yes, I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

And the perfect, angelic idiot said, “I don’t want to cause her more stress—hey, aren’t you that fashion designer?”

Glanni smiled widely at him. _Oh, the shark has pretty teeth, dear…_ “Why, yes, Mr. President, my assistant and I have just arrived in the country for an extended stay.” He snapped his fingers. “Felix!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: our elf boy's puzzlement at the name: "flón" means "fool" or "idiot." And if you've read the Harry Potter books, you may know that "felix" is Latin for "lucky." So Felix Flón is a lucky idiot. Safir Svindlare, however, is something rather more suspect--a sapphire swindler, a rare gem among thieves.


	6. Paper Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glanni is snotty about a lot of perfectly good suits, Íþró wins some money and goes to the library, and some stuff that's been boiling under the surface for a while finally gets _super real._

Íþró didn’t like leaving the balloon unattended in Hláturbaer, but apparently it wasn’t optional, because tour preparation had them hopping almost before Glanni and the president had finished shaking hands. First there were papers, “Safir’s” beautiful fake signature above Íþró’s Elvish mark. (It was incomprehensible to everyone else, and looked enough like the scribble of an illiterate man that Glanni simply presented it as such—“I’d _ask_ him to sign his name, but he can’t spell it.”) Then a whirlwind of introductions, the rest of the president’s staff blurring into one manically smiling face. _Then,_ the review of the president’s _current_ wardrobe, to be inspected by Glanni’s critical eye while Íþró trailed behind. He’d never been so bored. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d _ever_ been bored before, if this was true boredom. It _was_ impressive to see how many probing questions Glanni managed to slip into the flow of his languid, bitchy chatter, but honestly, Íþró would rather have been doing anything else.

And then there were so many _aides._ Or perhaps there weren’t _that_ many, but they were _everywhere._ They were bringing coffee or running errands or taking notes, and they always wanted to talk to him, resting their manicured fingers on his arm and smiling up at him and asking him questions he didn’t know how to answer. He mostly responded with blank stares and stammering, which if nothing else helped his cover.

Glanni loathed them, very quietly. He never explicitly _said_ so, but Íþró could tell, and he wasn’t quite sure _why._ All _he_ wanted to know was why they all felt the need to touch him. He didn’t so much mind it himself, he’d always been a tactile person, but it seemed to upset Glanni intensely.

“Fine,” Glanni said, flipping through a rack of suits. “Fine… _acceptable_ …my god, this one needs to be burned, yes, Felix, burn that.”

Íþró took the suit in question, trying to maintain the look of dopey admiration Glanni said was so important. Thinking of Átta helped; he’d been told that when he’d first started trying to be a hero and they were working together he’d often had a look of “moony hero-worship,” to quote his mother. “All right, Safir.”

Safir. What a ridiculous name.

“Hm, yes, we need this to be brighter.”

One of the ever-presented aides hovered next to Glanni’s elbow, taking notes. “Brighter?”

“More eye-catching, yes. Small things. The suits are _fine_ but _dull,_ they need vim. Vigor. Yes, _color._ ” Glanni stroked the lapel of his own eye-searing purple jacket. “ _Accessories._ ” He eyed her with distaste. “Yes, write that down.”

“Color…accessories…” She shifted, bumping Íþró with her hip, and then blushed and giggled. “What kind of accessories?”

Glanni ignored the question, although Íþró saw his eyes flicker to where the aide was still standing, still close enough to him that their shoulders brushed. “Small things. Very small. Yes, I could make some in an afternoon, must you always be _giggling,_ it is _distracting_ me.”

She blinked, looking puzzled but not bothered. “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll try to stop.” Her arm pressed against Íþró’s, although there was more than enough space for her to stand separately from him. “Will you need any supplies for that?”

Glanni started to rattle off a list of things, the aide taking notes so quickly that Íþró could have sworn that her hand was blurring.

And another aide showed up, resting her hand lightly on Íþró’s upper arm to get his attention. “Excuse me, um…Felix?” She batted her eyelashes flirtatiously. “The travel coordinator would like to meet with Mr. Svindlare as soon as he’s free.”

Glanni’s rapid-fire chatter abruptly cut off, and both aides and Íþró looked at him in surprise. He was staring at the new aide’s hand on Íþró’s arm, eyes narrowed, face pink. “I will,” he said tightly, “be there immediately.” Then, with a glint in his eye, “Give me that, yes, Felix will get the things for me, he knows what I need.” He scrawled something onto the bottom of the list when the aide handed it to him, and then shoved it into Íþró’s hand. “Yes, go _immediately._ Posthaste.”

Íþró rolled his eyes, since both aides were looking at Glanni and not him, and put down the suit he’d been holding on a chair. “Of course, Safir.”

 

* * *

 

Once he’d stepped out of the room, he took a look at the note. Most of it, of course, was uninteresting, types and colors of cloth in various lengths, presumably what a fashion designer would need to do whatever Glanni was saying he could do.

At the bottom, though, Glanni had written, _Investigate the bodyguards or something, for gods sake, do something useful, don’t just follow me around._

Íþró grinned.

Finally, something _interesting_ to do.

Except that if he didn’t _also_ go and get…whatever was on the list…Glanni would probably pitch a fit.

 

* * *

 

“Excuse me,” he said to the young woman at the fabric shop cutting counter, who blushed and giggled at him, “do you know where I could find the library?”

 

* * *

 

The trip to the library taught Íþró nothing regarding his actual work. He was almost disappointed; he enjoyed libraries, and the thought of encountering a shadowy group of assassins tucked away among the stacks was satisfying in a ridiculous way—he would have been a poor elf if he’d ever traded seriously in realism. Although a fight would have been very dangerous to the books. In any case, the woman at the reference desk had been more than happy to help an inquisitive young man answer a couple of questions about art and literature, and he’d come away with knowledge he’d wanted, and now he could get back to the serious business of thwarting an assassination with some interesting things to ponder.

Bodyguards, Glanni’s note had said. The Special Service, or the Secret Brigade, or whatever they were. The presidential mansion was crawling with them, agents in dark suits who muttered to each other and eyed Glanni like he was some kind of improbable animal. They barely looked at Íþró at all, their eyes skipping over him like he was just Glanni’s arm. It was a peculiar sensation, not being stared at.

Íþró doubted that they’d even _talk_ to him when they were on duty, being professionals. Presumably, though, they had to take breaks—assuming that if they did, they’d be willing to talk to him _then._

Resisting the urge to pull an irritated face, he shouldered his bags of fabric and headed for the workshop they’d been given. It was at the back of the mansion, near the kitchens and some rooms that had probably once been servants’ quarters. Ideally he’d get rid of his shopping and find some agents on break in one go.

“Hey, _silk!_ ”

And he’d already succeeded—the room he’d been passing was occupied by five or six agents, sitting around a table with their jackets off, eating sandwiches and smoking and chatting.

Silk, though?

It wasn’t actually hard to sound confused. “Are you talking to me?”

“You see any other silk around here?” The speaker was a mountainous woman with short blonde hair and a crooked nose—the only woman he’d seen among the agents, in fact. She grinned at him and gestured with her cigar. “Running errands?”

“I was, but I’m done now. Why?”

“C’mere. Come eat with us.”

One of the other agents groaned. “Áillun, don’t—”

“Shut up, Fránn, I want to talk to the silk. Look at him, he’s tiny, he won’t take up much room.” She shifted forward in her seat so she could push out an empty chair on the other side of the table. “Come on, you’re Falki or something, right?”

“Felix.”

“Right, yes. Like the cartoon cat. So do you really _like_ wearing all that mess? The hat’s cute enough, I suppose, but you look like a fruit salad on legs.”

Íþró shrugged, sitting down in the chair she’d offered. “Safir likes me to wear it, I just do what he says.” Which was true enough. “Do you like wearing black all the time?”

“Makes shopping easy.” Áillun laughed raucously. “You don’t _talk_ like some creampuff, you sound like you grew up in a barn, what’s got you following _him_ around like a dog? Don’t you do things _you_ like?”

“I like him.” As Íþró said it, he was surprised to realize that it was true as well. “But he keeps me very busy.”

“I _bet_ he does,” one of the other agents muttered, to general snickering.

Áillun leaned over and smacked the muttering agent on the back of the head without even looking at him. “Shut up, Magnús, I didn’t ask you. So what do you do when he’s _not_ keeping you busy?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Sports, mostly.”

“What, like golf or something? You don’t like you’ve got enough meat on you to play anything decent, you’d break.”

Just irritated enough to be unwise, but liking her just enough that he didn’t want to be unpleasant, Íþró said, “Hardly. I’m probably stronger than you.”

There was a collective intake of breath as the other agents shifted away from them, and Áillun’s eyes went wide. “You feel like proving that, brave little tailor?” Her sleeves were rolled up, presumably to keep them out of her food; now she put her cigar down in an ashtray and leaned forward, planting her elbow firmly on the table. “Because I’ll bet you five króna that I can pin you in ten seconds flat.”

From the muttering Íþró was hearing, the other agents would be impressed with him even if he lost—and of course, he wouldn’t lose. It would be a good way to make friends with them. He grinned at her as he unbuttoned his cuffs and started to roll up his sleeves. “I’ll take that bet.”

Someone let out a low whistle.

Elbow on the table. His hand wrapped around Áillun’s, which _was_ very large. “So which one of them is reffing?”

 

* * *

 

Glanni found him about an hour later, when he was in the middle of his eighth arm-wrestling match—some of the agents had gone back on duty, some others had arrived for their breaks and immediately gotten caught up in the party atmosphere of the room. Íþró himself had undone his collar after the second match, shed his waistcoat after the third, and was feeling more comfortable now than he had since Glanni had cajoled him into putting on the awful black sweater three days before. It was _exhausting_ to go for so long without play. Being around laughing people was a welcome relief.

Opponent number eight, whose name was Kaleb or Kjaran or something, gritted his teeth and grunted as the back of his hand slammed into the table. “ _Fokk,_ you’re strong. All right, hang on,” as he dug his wallet out of his pocket, “I only bet two, you’re cleaning out the whole department.”

“I keep saying, you don’t actually have to pay me, I’m just doing this for fun.”

“You’ve beaten eight people already and you don’t even look tired, I think I _want_ to pay you.” The agent—Kasper, that was it—handed him two króna, grinning, and then looked up. “Your boss is here. Looks upset. Hey, stretch, this is a private breakroom!”

Glanni’s voice seemed to float down from the ceiling on a cloud of horrified surprise. “Yes? Then how did my _assistant_ get in?”

“We invited him.”

“ _Áillun_ invited him, if you’d all listened to _me_ instead of _her_ we wouldn’t be down any money.”

“Shut up, Fránn, you didn’t have to bet so much. Anyway, we invited _him,_ we didn’t invite you.”

Íþró turned in his chair, looked up at Glanni, and said, as innocently as possible, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you wanted me.”

Glanni just stared at him, frozen.

It was sort of entertaining. “I got all the things you asked for.”

Glanni shook himself, visibly snapping back into character. “Yes, well. But you didn’t _bring_ them to me, did you, yes. Come on, we have _work_ to do, I don’t pay you to _hang around._ ”

“You don’t pay me at all,” Íþró said pleasantly as Glanni’s hand closed around his shirt collar.

“We are _going_ back to the _hotel._ To _work._ ”

“If you did pay me then maybe I’d hurry.”

“You see what I put up with?” Glanni said to an unsympathetic-looking agent. “Thick as a brick, yes, I don’t know why I bother.”

 

* * *

 

The first thing Glanni said once they got back to the _hotel,_ however, when he’d shed his jacket and hat and dropped the Safir mask and relaxed into his own irritating and irritable self, was, “They were making bets? How much money did you get out of them?”

“Fifty króna or so. Also one of them pinched my backside, I think he was hoping it would make me lose my match. I _told_ them that they didn’t actually have to pay me, but they wouldn’t listen.” Íþró danced back out of Glanni’s reach. “And I’m not giving it to _you,_ Glanni, there’s a shelter for homeless youth near here that actually _needs_ it.”

“Like I _don’t_ need it, I have to keep myself in truffles and liqueur _somehow._ And when did you start calling me by my first name?”

“Not sure, but we’ve spent enough time around each other that I should think you wouldn’t mind. You can call me Íþró if you like.”

“And what was wrong with the waistcoat that you took it off? I put actual _thought_ into that oufit.”

“Too constricting. Made it difficult to arm-wrestle.”

“You wear a _leather breastplate_ most of the time.”

“Yes, but that’s custom-made and not nearly as tight, I have no idea why you felt the need to put me in an outfit that fits so closely.” In fact, Íþró had a few educated guesses about why Glanni had felt such an urge to play dress-up, but he wasn’t quite prepared to address them. “Anyway, it’s not any of the agents. I spoke to a good few of them just now, and in any case they’re under constant audit themselves in order to prevent situations _precisely_ like this.”

Glanni made a face. “I can tell you from _personal experience_ that observation like that guarantees nothing, but I suppose I have to take your word for it. It’s not his personal assistant, his social secretary, his private chef, his chauffeur, his mistress—lovely woman—or the chief of staff. Or any of those ghastly aides. Of course there are still a number of other people to investigate, but between the two of us we seem to have covered many of the most dangerous points of infiltration.”

Íþró raised an eyebrow. “Personal experience?”

“What, you think I just _hotwired_ his car? Got it right out from under the nose of five or six agents, keys in hand. It was a neat bit of car theft. I’m still pleased with it.”

“You met his mistress?”

“Yes, it turns out that she and Safir both appreciate Christian Dior, brandy Alexanders, and men with more muscle than sense. Rampantly unfaithful, but the president’s so taken with her that he doesn’t care. She asked if you were single, by the way. I—well, Safir—made it very clear that you were off-limits, so you won’t have to worry about her trying to lure you into some secluded corner before we leave with the tour.”

“Yes, speaking of that.”

“Speaking of which? I just said a number of things.”

“I stopped the library after picking up all those things you wanted.”

“I’m not sure what that has to do with what _I_ was talking about.”

“Men with muscles. The woman at the reference desk helped me look up who that artist is, the one you mentioned the other day. Tom of Finland? Of course, the one book that they have discussing his work has been temporarily pulled from the shelves due to a complaint from a church group in the area, but she was kind enough to let me take a look through it.”

Glanni had gone very pale, and then flushed such a dark shade of red that it almost made a fetching contrast to the violet of his shirt. “I’m. Not sure why you feel the need to bring this up.”

Íþró inspected his fingernails, noting absently that they needed trimming, and didn’t try to meet Glanni’s eyes. It was incredibly difficult to maintain the appearance of being composed. “If you’re attracted to me then I’d appreciate it if you’d just say so. As you’re so fond of pointing out, I’m not especially good at subtlety, and given our previous interactions I’m generally inclined to think of any oblique references you make as sinister, not flirtatious.”

 _That_ got a strangled-sounding, “I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t bother me. There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to people. I’d just rather know.” Íþró looked up at him, holding his gaze steadily, determined not to let on how nervous he was for fear that Glanni would just latch onto that and try to avoid the conversation altogether.

They stared at each other silent and unsmiling, until, finally, Glanni looked away, shoulders slumping in an air of frustrated defeat. “It’s very difficult to keep hating you when you go around smiling at me and being patient and looking the way you do.”

“Then why not stop? _I_ don’t hate _you._ ”

“Oh, you don’t? What happened to ‘despicable criminal lowlife’ and ‘I don’t like you’ and ‘you’re a villain’ and all that?”

“I…look, not _liking_ you doesn’t mean I _hate_ you. Hate takes a lot of energy that could be better used elsewhere. And honestly I think at this point it’s more that I don’t like what you _do._ You _do_ a lot of terrible things; if not for that I think we could be very good friends. You’ve been a great help to me.”

Glanni’s jaw set stubbornly. “I have approximately three ethical principles, elf, and being straightforward with people violates all of them.”

“Then _I’ll_ be straightforward with _you._ ” Íþró took a deep breath. “Because I think about kissing you with enough frequency that it’s making it slightly difficult to concentrate on working.”

Silence.

“…Glanni?”

“Well, why _haven’t_ you, then? For _gods’_ sake.”

“Because it’s not the sort of thing you do without permission and I was somewhat concerned that you might try to stab me?”

“And since _when_ have I ever indicated any willingness to _stab_ you? I can’t stand the sight of blood, and you’d just dodge anyway.”

Íþró actually started to smile. “So are you saying that you _want_ me to kiss you, or just that you won’t stab me if I do?”

The corners of Glanni’s mouth twitched upwards. “I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that any response I could give would violate my very firmly held ethical principles.”

“Which ones?”

“Never tell the truth if you can help it, and never turn down a chance to indulge yourself.”

Íþró took a moment to puzzle that out, pulled Glanni down by the collar of his shirt, and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

Glanni knocked his hat off as they stumbled towards the bed. “ _Finally._ I’ve been _waiting_ for you to get a clue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just realized I forgot to add this endnote before. The króna is the official currency of Iceland (abbreviated ISK). At the moment it's not especially strong--100 króna equals slightly less than $1 USD. However, it was _very_ strong in the early 1960s, with 1 ISK equalling approximately $2.50 USD. Áillun's initial 5 ISK bet would be about $12.50 USD; Íþró's total winnings (50 ISK) would come to about $120 USD.


	7. Not In Such An Obvious Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glanni starts down the path of Fucking Everything Up, as is inevitably his wont, and also gives a teenager some possibly-inappropriate advice. Íþró just does his best. And guess who we finally meet?

Glanni woke up to the sound of the shower running and took stock of his current situation.

At this point, he did have to admit to himself that it was difficult to keep thinking of Íþró as his enemy. They were working together, Íþró apparently thought well of him, they’d spent a significant portion of the night having sex…none of those factors would have _individually_ disqualified Íþró from “enemy” status, but when taken together they did paint a fairly convivial picture. Íþró also hadn’t threatened to drag him to jail for at least two days now, so perhaps he no longer thought of Glanni as an enemy either.

(Scratch that, he _certainly_ didn’t think of Glanni as an enemy. He was more complex than Glanni had initially given him credit for, but his painful earnestness would never have let him become so intimate with a hated foe.)

So, point one: Glanni ached. Pleasantly so, but it was definitely still aching.

Point two: they were no closer to finding the agent from the Players than they had been yesterday. Or, he supposed, they were _somewhat_ closer, having eliminated a number of possibilities, but the only thing that really counted was _succeeding_ in finding the agent. Preferably before the president was killed.

Point three: he was having an emotional reaction to sleeping with Íþró, and it disturbed him.

With all of the elf’s boundless energy, Glanni had always thought—when he’d allowed himself to consider it at all—that he’d be a quick fuck. Short on foreplay, long on…length…and with some kind of impressive display of flexibility, but over with some speed. Except that it _hadn’t_ been quick at all, Íþró had been unnervingly slow and gentle and focused, and Glanni had _liked_ it. And him. Which was the stranger thing.

Glanni Glæpur was not a man interested in long-term relationships. The term “commitment” made him shudder—it was one of his least favorite concepts, up there with income tax and accountability and health food. He wasn’t suddenly feeling different about that, permanence was still horrifying, but…the ludicrous phrase “medium-term” floated to the top of his mind. More than a year. Maybe more than two. The thought of sleeping next to Íþró every night and waking up in the morning knowing he was nearby was distressingly wonderful.

“It’s not as if I want to open up a joint safe deposit box with him,” Glanni muttered to himself, and was immediately embarrassed.

At that point, of course, he heard the shower turning off, and Íþró had the audacity to wander out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist and say, “Good morning.”

Glanni stared at him open-mouthed. “I. You. Would you _put clothes on?_ ”

Íþró blinked and smiled at him. “I didn’t think that would still be an issue.”

“No, it’s a _different_ issue, if you keep standing around in a towel like that for much longer then I’ll be overcome and you’ll have to get back in bed with me and we won’t get anything else done today.”

“I _could_ get back in bed with you, I think I’ve got enough self-control that I could make sure we actually get to work at a reasonable time.”

“ _You_ might, but _I_ don’t. Self-control is a disgusting concept and I won’t have anything to do with it.”

Íþró shrugged. “Well, if you say so.” He dropped the towel and reached for his pants.

Glanni considered jumping out the window, since that seemed to be the only _reasonable_ way to behave around this _infuriating_ elf if he was going to get anything else done today. Then he realized that jumping out the window was _hardly_ reasonable response and getting things done was overrated, so instead he pulled the sheet back, took aim, and pounced.

 

* * *

 

Íþró had a frustrating amount of self-control. They were done and getting dressed after half an hour. In revenge, Glanni grabbed a particularly hideous and fashionable shirt from their luggage and passed it to him. “Wear that one, you can’t wear the same thing every day, you’ll make me look bad.”

To his absolute disgust, Íþró took the shirt, looked it over, and said, “This is really cute, actually,” before pulling it on. _No one_ should have been able to look that good in white silk with a twee cherry print.

Glanni gave him a flat stare. “I despise you.”

“I think if you despised me you wouldn’t have wanted me to—”

“ _Shut_ up.” He scowled and picked out a paisley suit for himself, hunting until he found a sufficiently glaring necktie to wear with it.

 

* * *

 

“Letter for you, Mr. Svindlare,” said the receptionist at the hotel as they went to breakfast.

He shook himself into character. “Thank you, my dear, yes. Do you have stationery, perhaps?”

“Of course, sir!”

 _My dear Halla,_ he wrote, once they were seated and Íþró was applying himself to a horrifically colorful fruit salad, _I would very much like to know how you keep getting my address._

He looked at that for a moment, shook his head, and took a fresh sheet of paper. Some questions didn’t bear asking.

_Dear child,_

_If you ever have the opportunity to sleep with an elf, do so immediately._

 

* * *

 

They reached the presidential mansion and were immediately accosted by one of the horrible, ever-present aides. This one was French, Glanni was fairly sure she was named Cynthia, and he loathed her, from the tips of her dull, sensible pumps to the top of her curled hair. “Yes, yes, what is it?”

She glanced at Íþró and giggled, and he resisted the urge to slap her. “I was told to introduce you to the makeup artist as soon as you got here, Mr. Svindlare, so that you can coordinate with her before the tour leaves tomorrow.”

“Of course, yes, lead the way.”

Room after room of unbearably expensive things that he still itched to steal, and then the horrible aide giggled again and said, “Mr. Svindlare, this is Britta Brella, the makeup artist for the tour. Miss Brella, this is Safir Svindlare, the fashion designer!”

Britta Brella said, “Yes, of _course._ The designer.”

Glanni stared up at her. He _had_ to. She was taller than _he_ was, even _before_ the stiletto heels, and everything about her was red—dress, shoes, fingernails, lips, _hair…_

In fact, there was something _very_ suspicious about her hair.

She held out her hand, and he bowed over it, working to keep the snarl out of his voice as he said, “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Brella.”

“Of course it is.” The corner of her mouth curled up in a cheerful sneer that he might have admired under other circumstances. “I’ve heard so much _about_ you, Mr. Svindlare.”

She was very much not the sort of double-agent he’d been expecting, but a double-agent she certainly was. He could tell another liar from a mile away, it was a sixth sense. Bristling like a cat, he turned away from her. “Felix, I—excuse me, yes, _where_ is my assistant?”

Horrible Aide Cynthia smiled at him. “He stepped away to talk to one of the agents, Mr. Svindlare.”

“Perhaps you should find him,” purred Britta Brella, and he loathed her. “But it was _lovely_ to meet you.”

He growled at her, which made the aide shriek in surprise, and then forced himself to smile again. “Yes. Of _course._ I’m sure we’ll be seeing a _great_ deal of each other.”

 

* * *

 

The other agent Glanni found in the hallway took one look at him, rolled his eyes, and said, “Áillun borrowed your rent boy for a security briefing.”

Of _course_ it was the big woman agent who’d made off with his—with Íþró. Glanni looked down his nose with as much haughty self-possession as he could muster, which was really quite a lot. “How dare you speak to me.”

“Suit yourself, stretch. They went that way.”

He stalked off down the hall the agent indicated, still seething at the appearance of Britta Brella. He’d expected the Players’ agent to be _quiet._ Unassuming. A cook, perhaps, or a secretary. Someone who could move unseen and unsuspected. There was only room for _one_ professional charlatan in this presidential entourage, and he’d be _damned_ if it was anyone but him. If she sang as well he’d poison her.

He started to round the corner and then stopped at the sound of Íþró’s voice. “—know what you mean.”

“You know damn well what I mean.” Áillun had Íþró backed into a corner, and Glanni was grudgingly impressed at the elf’s acting skill—he’d _nearly_ managed to look convincingly intimidated. It almost seemed like an intimate rendezvous, or would have if it hadn’t been so obvious which side Áillun’s shirt buttoned on. “My mamma lost a brother once. She told me about the games elves play.”

Íþró’s eyes widened slightly, and he looked immeasurably sad. “I’m very sorry.”

“So what’s an elf doing here? Does your sugar know what you are, or did you trick him too?”

Glanni’s back went stiff. _Sugar?_

“Ah…”

They shifted, and Glanni had to duck back a bit out of Áillun’s line of sight as she said, very slowly, “Are. You. A. _Threat._ ”

Íþró sighed. “No. I’m not. And I’ll promise that on whatever you like.” He paused, frowning slightly. “How did you figure it out?”

“Stefan tried to take your hat, yesterday, when you were arm-wrestling Fránn. It slipped.”

“I grabbed it, though.”

“Not quickly enough. Why are you _here?_ Because if you’re going to make my job difficult then I’m not going to keep being nice to you.”

“There are…dangers. I’m trying to help.”

“What _dangers?_ Elves don’t help.”

“ _I_ do.”

Áillun eyed him suspiciously. “Only elf I ever heard of helping people was that mad one who made my cousin stop smoking a few years ago. He climbed through a kid’s television. Stína talked my _ear_ off.”

Íþró relaxed visibly, just enough to smile. “He’s a close friend.”

“So _what dangers?_ My agents and I are supposed to _know_ about things like this. Do you have _any_ idea the pressure I’m under? How hard it was to get to where I am now? I haven’t _been_ in this job that long, the only reason I _ever_ got this far is because that Glæpur character made off with the president’s car and five people got _fired._ ”

A lesser person, Glanni thought absently, might have felt guilty at hearing that, but as it was, all he could think was, _She ought to thank me,_ before he swept around the corner. If he didn’t interrupt them _now,_ Íþró’s good nature would almost certainly overcome him, and if he blew his _own_ cover, he would eventually blow Glanni’s as well, and _that_ would inevitably lead to Glanni’s ignominious arrest. “Ah, yes, _there_ you are, Felix. Excuse me, Agent, you have stolen my apprentice, give him back, yes.”

Áillun stepped away from Íþró, looking furious. “Your _apprentice_ is withholding _vital security information._ ”

“Yes? Is he? My apprentice wouldn’t know vital security information if it _bit_ him.” Glanni wrapped a hand around Íþró’s upper arm, trying to ignore the surge of irritable possessiveness in his stomach. “Come along, Felix.”

“I’m not done _talking_ to him.”

Glanni waved at her as he walked away. “That’s nice.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as they’d rounded the corner Glanni pulled Íþró into a closet and shut the door, wedging his pocket square into the latch to keep it from locking them in.

Íþró frowned. “This seems like a poor time for intimacy. Don’t you think we should be informing her about this? She _is_ head of security.”

“It’s the _perfect_ time for intimacy, it’ll make them think I’m frivolous. Which we _want._ ” A pause. “That other agent called you a _rent boy._ ”

“Yes, he did that yesterday too, he might have been flirting. He was the one who pinched me.” Íþró crowded him back against the wall and pulled him down by his necktie. “What’s got you so worked up?” he muttered against Glanni’s mouth. “You weren’t this angry fifteen minutes ago.”

“Fifteen minutes ago I hadn’t met our plant.” Glanni fisted a hand in the front of Íþró’s shirt. “It’s that _makeup_ woman.”

“How can you tell?” Oh, god, the scent of him was dizzying, Glanni was turning into a giddy teenager and it was terrible. Ditching this hideous undercover operation and staying in the hotel room for a week or two was looking very appealing.

“She’s wearing your _color._ ” He tugged on one of the curls of red hair escaping from Íþró’s hat. “And her roots are growing out, she’s a _rank amateur._ ” Lips on lips, and then Íþró’s _tongue_ on his _neck_. “I don’t like that other agent, if he tries to touch you again I’ll stab him.”

“You said you hated blood.”

“I’ll make an exception.”

“If you try to stab any of the agents—or _anyone,_ for that matter—I _will_ turn you in.”

“I thought we were _past_ that.” Íþró’s leg was wedged in between his thighs, the elf’s hand inside his shirt, it didn’t seem like at _all_ the time for threats. “I’m hurt.”

“We _were_ past it until you starts bringing up stabbing.” Did his eyes _have_ to be so blue? It was so unnecessary. “I thought you were changing.”

Glanni’s back went stiff, his hands stilling on the buttons of Íþró’s vest. “What could have given you that idea?”

“This. Us.” Íþró’s tone was…affectionate. Low, warm, the voice of a lover. Not an enemy. Not whatever they were that wasn’t enemies. “This is a fairly big change to begin with.”

“New information. New…activities. Not _change._ ”

“What’s so frightening about change?”

Íþró had stopped kissing him, was just _looking_ at him, heart-stoppingly disheveled, and Glanni said, “Spoken like a true hero. We can. We should talk about this later.”

“If you like, Glanni.”

“When you say my name like that it sounds like you _like_ me.”

“I do like you.”

Glanni stared at him for another minute and then pushed him away. “We have things to do.” His hands moved on automatic to straighten Íþró’s hat and fix his own necktie. Shirts remained untucked, some buttons undone; if the cover story had some truth behind it, all the better. _Remind that **agent** to keep his **hands off.**_ “I…”

“Yes?”

“Never mind.”

 

* * *

 

He had forgotten, somehow, between sleeping with Íþró and meeting Britta Brella and having distressing emotional reactions to things, that the presidential tour was actually _leaving_ in a day. He had on some level hoped that he and Íþró would find the saboteur and deal with them _before_ that happened, as he didn’t relish the thought of being in closer quarters with any of the agents. Genius disguise or not, one of them might recognize him. But finding the saboteur early would have been too much to hope for, and in any case there were still so many pieces of clothing to sneer at as he conducted his final post-lunch wardrobe review.

Once they’d taken out Britta Brella and the hideously gauche Bremen Town Players, once Glanni had gotten the full pardon he so richly deserved and secured himself at least another few blissful years of uninterrupted villainy, then perhaps he could relax for a bit.

Which raised the question, what _would_ he do, once he’d finished this mission that Íþró had forced him into? (Ignoring the fact that he’d _volunteered,_ of course, and _additionally_ ignoring how much he was enjoying their hunt.)

Perhaps he could go on vacation. Somewhere warm—Ibiza, perhaps, or Martinique, or a quieter and more obscure destination. Palm trees, sand, a private beach house, a few wealthy tourists he could fleece, the sunlight turning Íþró’s skin to gold and darkening the freckles on his shoulders…

He shook himself.

“Safir?” Íþró was frowning at him, looking worried. Why should the elf worry about him? “Are you all right?”

“What? Yes, yes.” He shook himself again, trying to keep a grip on his sleepy sneer. “I’m fine. We should go pack, yes, we’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

Áillun was watching them suspiciously as they left, and it was only through great and admirable self-control that he didn’t make a rude gesture at her. A Glæpur was never at fault, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to blame Íþró for anything right now, so he had to blame his bad mood on _someone._

 

* * *

 

He lay in the hotel bed that night with the elf wrapped around him and wished that he could see the future. Any future, any _part_ of one, anything to tell him if all his carefully laid plans were worth it. He couldn’t _see_ himself with a lover, not for more than a year or two. But he’d never known himself to _want_ one, and now…

Íþró’s face was pressed to the nape of his neck, mustache tickling his skin. _He_ thought that this was…something. Maybe he didn’t think it was _love,_ but he was too earnest and forthright to see it is a momentary inflammation of the senses. He believed that the world was kind, that change was always positive, and that love was simple.

But Glanni didn’t love him, and the realization that he _wanted_ to only made it worse. He _liked_ Íþró—it was _terrible,_ this soft, laughing fondness. Tomorrow morning he would wake up next to Íþró, and they would _make_ love, and they would leave with the tour and save the day and Glanni still wouldn’t be _in_ love. He hated it. He hated wanting it.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be that way, though. Perhaps things would be different.

It wasn’t as if he could see the future.

“Are you all right?” Íþró murmured sleepily.

“No.” Glanni pressed back into his welcoming arms. “But there’s nothing you can do to fix it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Áillun's shirt, and the buttons thereon: classically, women's shirts button on the left side, while men's shirts button on the right. When Glanni says he knows which side Áillun's shirt is buttoned on, he's implying that she's wearing men's clothes--i.e. that she's a lesbian. Which is entirely true.
> 
> Glanni _himself,_ when not in disguise, generally prefers shirts which button on the left, although he does like _some_ variety. _Ideally_ he prefers discreet snaps, for ease of removal, or hooks and eyes, to be difficult.

**Author's Note:**

> Share, enjoy, and please leave me a comment if you had fun reading this! ^_^


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